


into each life some rain must fall

by talkwordytome



Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [4]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Caretaker Gwendolyn, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mildred Ratched Needs a Hug, Sick Mildred, Sickfic, shameless fluff, soft lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27666041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: The coming attractions are nearly over by the time they find their theater, but it’s a Wednesday, so there are plenty of empty seats. They choose two tucked away in the upper right corner, close enough to the projector booth that its whir is a soothing white noise in their periphery. There’s no one in front of them or next to them, so Mildred spends most of the runtime with her head tucked into the warm, fragrant nook between Gwendolyn’s head and shoulder. It would be nice to visit Paris, Mildred decides, under circumstances unrelated to war. Gwendolyn deserves to sit in the sunshine and eat beignets and drink cafe au lait. She deserves warm breezes and bright awnings and balconies crawling with ivy. She deserves the sort of pure, uncomplicated joy that makes characters in musicals break into song.in which Mildred and Gwendolyn go to the movies and get caught in the rain, and Mildred catches a cold, because I'm me, so of course she does.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024666
Comments: 22
Kudos: 93





	into each life some rain must fall

**Author's Note:**

> okay FIRST of all a HUGE shout-out to wildnessbecomesyou because this fic literally would not exist without her being willing to send soft silly little sickfic hc's back and forth with me. You are a true mensch, my pal.
> 
> title is a reference to the song of the same name by The Ink Spots, which is a very good & fun song that also reminds me lots of Mildred and Gwendolyn.
> 
> this is quite long and a little bit about everything and also a little bit about nothing which I personally think is very smart and modernist of me, but am unsure if anyone else will share that opinion!!!! hopefully some of you do!!!!
> 
> regarding timeline, this fic takes place in late January of 1952.

The thing of it is, they’d never intended to be caught in the rain in the first place. 

It’s rare that they find themselves with a shared day off, and on a weekday no less, so perhaps this particular Wednesday is a little bit miraculous. It’s after 9:00 when they finally rouse themselves, a positively luxurious hour by their standards. Gwendolyn fixes breakfast in her pajamas and bare feet--honey toast and raspberries, simple and sweet and bright--which they savor slowly still tucked up in bed. Mildred trails messy, stained red kisses down the alabaster curve of Gwendolyn’s neck. Gwendolyn’s giggles are a morningsong, a melody Mildred wants to live in for the rest of her life if the universe will only let her.

Mildred is the one to suggest seeing a matinee. Mildred loves the movies, and even more so than the movies themselves Mildred loves the velvety dark of the theater. She loves the hushed quiet, the sensation of being surrounded by people yet, somehow, still very much alone. She loves letting herself be lost in a story, far away from the rest of the world, for a few lovely hours. She especially loves that if she and Gwendolyn sit towards the back, away from everyone else, they can hold hands without drawing so much as a curious glance. 

They decide on _An American in Paris_ , which only just got its wide release a few weeks ago. A sunny musical is the perfect balm for the sleety grey of midwinter, and they both do have to admit that Gene Kelly is rather dashing, his gender aside. They opt for the 3:00 PM showing, which is late enough that they won’t have to rush to get ready, but still early enough that they can get dinner after it ends if they’d like. Mildred wears a long-sleeved, marigold yellow dress that looks glorious with her red hair. Gwendolyn chooses a pair of wide-legged trousers and a sweater that Mildred particularly favors; it’s dark blue angora, and incredibly soft.

The cinema is barely a mile from their house so they walk. It’s cold, but in a bracing sort of way, and the fresh air and exercise do them both good. The sky is threatening rain, but it holds off, at least for the moment. The weak afternoon sun peeks out from behind clouds every so often, warming their shoulders and the tops of their heads.

At the concessions counter, Gwendolyn orders popcorn and Junior Mints--she likes to combine them, maintaining that this is the only perfect movie snack--and Mildred chooses Milk Duds and Sno-Caps. She has an undeniable sweet tooth, something Gwendolyn likes to tease her about endlessly (not that Mildred minds). 

The coming attractions are nearly over by the time they find their theater, but it’s a Wednesday, so there are plenty of empty seats. They choose two tucked away in the upper right corner, close enough to the projector booth that its whir is a soothing white noise in their periphery. There’s no one in front of them or next to them, so Mildred spends most of the runtime with her head tucked into the warm, fragrant nook between Gwendolyn’s head and shoulder. It would be nice to visit Paris, Mildred decides, under circumstances unrelated to war. Gwendolyn deserves to sit in the sunshine and eat beignets and drink cafe au lait. She deserves warm breezes and bright awnings and balconies crawling with ivy. She deserves the sort of pure, uncomplicated joy that makes characters in musicals break into song.

When the movie ends, the clouds have finally swollen to bursting. Fat raindrops spatter against the lobby windows. Gwendolyn has always found this so discomfiting, entering a movie when the weather is one way and leaving when it is another. It disrupts the Earth beneath her feet, just a bit. It makes her question how reliable she can count on her perception of reality to be.

Gwendolyn hasn’t even finished processing the shift in the weather when Mildred removes her own coat and tucks it around Gwendolyn’s shoulders. Her mouth is a determined line, and she nods to herself, apparently satisfied with this decision.

Gwendolyn scowls. “ _No_ ,” she says firmly, but really they both know it is just so she can say that she said no, because when Mildred’s jaw is set like that there isn’t much one can do to reason with her.

“Yes,” Mildred says, equally firm, and that—Gwendolyn knows—is that. “You’ll catch cold without it.”

You’ll catch cold without it, Gwendolyn thinks, but there’s not much of a point continuing the discussion. And anyway, Mildred is already rushing out the doors and into the deluge, calling over her shoulder, “If we hurry we can beat the worst of it!”

She’s right, at first, but not long into their walk the rain picks up, and then it picks up some more, until finally it’s well and truly storming. Gwendolyn is freezing even with her own coat and Mildred’s to protect her, so she can’t imagine how Mildred must be faring. There are drops of water clinging to Mildred’s long eyelashes and dripping down the bridge of her nose. She huddles close to Gwendolyn as they walk, her teeth nearly chattering with the force of her shivers.

Gwendolyn tries her best to give Mildred back her coat, but Mildred stubbornly refuses every single attempt. “I don’t need it,” she says, “because I’m _fine_.”

Gwendolyn sighs. “We have decidedly different definitions of _fine_ , then,” she says, “because you do not seem at all _fine_ to me.”

“It’s just a little water.”

“A _little_?” Gwendolyn squeaks. “You can hardly see two steps ahead of you for the rain.”

Mildred huffs. “All the more reason to stop arguing,” she says irritably, “because it is slowing us down, and the sooner we’re home the sooner we _both_ can get warm and dry.”

And they do move faster when they aren’t bickering, it’s true, but even still, by the time they’re back poor Mildred is pale as a sheet and shaking too vigorously to speak. 

“Go shower,” Gwendolyn orders the moment they walk through the door, before she’s even removed her coats. “You’re going to catch your death if you don’t warm up, Mildred.”

“You g-go,” Mildred manages, still shivering. She tries to untie her shoes but her fingers are stiff with cold and clumsy. Gwendolyn bends over and offers help without being asked, and Mildred blushes. 

“You go,” Mildred repeats. “I’ll j-join you in a m-moment; I have a few things I n-need to d-do first.”

She means to join Gwendolyn. She really does. She’d only planned on putting the kettle on so they could make hot chocolate later, but then she worries it might whistle while they’re in the bathroom and she won’t hear it. She decides to wait for it to heat up, and then realizes there’s a huge puddle by the front door from their wet clothes, and that won’t do at all. The kettle sings just as she’s finished mopping up the water, but then there aren’t any clean mugs. It seems silly, though, to wash two mugs and ignore everything else in the sink. She’s midway through scrubbing a plate when a pair of hands grab her waist. She yelps and drops the plate back into the soapy water.

“Shower,” Gwendolyn says in Mildred’s ear. “ _Now_.”

Mildred blinks. “Are you already done?” she asks. “How long has it been?”

“Nearly a half hour,” Gwendolyn says. She rubs her hands vigorously up and down Mildred’s arms. “Sweetheart, you’re _freezing_.”

She’s fretting, and Mildred cannot abide it when Gwendolyn frets. It’s unacceptable. Gwendolyn shouldn’t ever have to fret about anything, least of all Mildred. 

“I’m alright,” Mildred reassures. “Really. I’ll finish up here and—”

“ _I’ll_ finish up here,” Gwendolyn amends. “ _You_ will go and warm up. I’ll have hot chocolate ready and waiting when you’re done.”

She gives Mildred’s bottom an affectionate little tap. Mildred darts out of the way, giggling and half-tripping over her own feet. “Cheeky,” she says over her shoulder, then sticks out her tongue. 

Gwendolyn was right; the shower does help. Mildred’s skin is flushed pink from the heat by the time she’s done and she can feel her fingers and toes again. She wipes her hand across the mirror, clearing a circle in the fog. She swallows, then clears her throat and frowns when that causes a twinge of pain. 

She spends perhaps a few too many minutes wrapped in her towel, hanging her and Gwendolyn’s clothes on the shower curtain rod so they’ll dry properly. So many minutes, in fact, that once she’s done she’s back to being chilled. She swallows again, her frown deepening when it hurts worse than it did the first time. 

There is a faint pressure behind her eyes and the bridge of her nose, too, that feels disconcertingly like the early stages of a head cold. She sniffles, groans, and presses two fingers against her left temple. She is _not_ getting sick. She categorically refuses. The very notion is appalling. Not only would it be extremely impractical, it would upset Gwendolyn, and Mildred, quite simply, will not be responsible for upsetting Gwendolyn. 

Hot cocoa and dry clothes will probably set her right anyway, Mildred decides. She changes into one of Gwendolyn’s winter nightgowns, which even through her increasingly stuffy nose smells wonderfully like Gwendolyn—lavender and perfume, faint cigarette smoke and coffee. If she could eat this smell she would. She’d never be hungry again. 

She heads down the stairs and back into the kitchen. She copies Gwendolyn and wraps her arms tight around Gwendolyn’s waist. Gwendolyn twists in Mildred’s grip and plants a happy kiss on Mildred’s cheek (which is still cooler than she’d prefer).

“Better?” Gwendolyn asks.

Mildred nods, then unintentionally betrays herself with a thick sniffle. The corners of Gwendolyn’s mouth turn down, and Mildred’s stomach sinks.

“I’m _not_ sick,” she says quickly before Gwendolyn has a chance to speak, though this perhaps hurts her case more than it helps when her voice breaks on the word sick. 

“Hmm,” Gwendolyn says, her eyes narrowed, but chooses not to comment further. 

Instead, she hands Mildred a steaming mug of hot chocolate. There are marshmallows floating inside of it, and when Mildred takes a sip the chocolate leaves a faint mustache above her upper lip. Gwendolyn kisses it off. 

They cuddle up under the couch under entirely too many blankets. Between this and the half a mug of hot chocolate she’s finished, Gwendolyn is perfectly cozy and comfortable again. Mildred, though, is still a bit shivery, and her sniffles are only getting worse. Gwendolyn drums her fingers against her thighs and thinks for a moment. 

She tucks the blankets tight around Mildred’s legs and feet. She stands, ignoring Mildred’s little whine of protest at this loss of body heat, and crosses the living room. Mildred startles when the fireplace roars to life, loud as it is combined with the downpour outside, but she immediately begins to feel properly warm for the first time since they’ve been back home. 

Gwendolyn takes the book she’s been reading, _The Talented Mr. Ripley_ , off the side table. They take turns reading aloud to each other, though Mildred’s turns are done in fits and starts as she has to blow her nose every few sentences. Each new tissue is accompanied by a grumbled, “I’m _fine_ ,” from Mildred and a disbelieving little noise in the back of Gwen’s throat.

Gwendolyn is nearly finished reading chapter five when she notices a certain drowsy heaviness to Mildred’s body as it leans against her shoulder. Her rosebud mouth is slightly parted and she is emitting soft, congested snores as she breathes. Her eyelashes are resting against the tops of her cheeks, and in sleep she is so lovely and peaceful that Gwendolyn swears she must be an angel. She slips a bookmark into _Ripley_ and quietly shuts it. If Mildred is getting sick, and Gwendolyn is reasonably certain she is, she needs the rest. Really, Mildred needs the rest even when she’s perfectly healthy.

Gwendolyn picks up the morning newspaper and finds a page without too much print. She tears it out and begins to jot down what she thinks-- _thinks_ \--was in the chicken soup Trevor used to make, once upon a time. The faint rasp and rattle behind Mildred’s breath only worsens as she sleeps, and Gwendolyn makes a second list, this one of items she should probably get at the pharmacy a few blocks away. Once both lists are completed, she presses a quick kiss to Mildred’s forehead (no fever, at least not one she can detect), maneuvers her body out from under Mildred’s sleeping one, and tiptoes into the kitchen.

When Mildred wakes the fire has nearly smoldered out. The rain is still steadily falling, and the sun has set. She quickly sits up, aghast at having slept so long, then immediately falls back against the pillows when this causes the world to tipsily spin. Her head feels fuzzy and full of cotton. Her ears are throbbing and her throat hurts. It seems decidedly unfair that she feels so much worse after sleeping.

She stands. She wraps a blanket around her shoulders because, somehow, she’s still cold. It’s long enough that it drags behind her on the floor as she walks, which she knows is distinctly unsanitary, but she can’t quite bring herself to care. She follows the quiet sounds of Gwen’s humming and padding sock-feet into the kitchen. She stumbles into the doorway, whining when the bright light hits her eyes.

Gwendolyn immediately whips around at the noise. Spotting Mildred, her mouth forms a pout. “Poor baby,” she coos. “You shouldn’t be up and walking around.”

Mildred’s brow furrows. _Shouldn’t be up and walking around_? What an absurd thing for Gwendolyn to say. _Honestly_. Of course she should be up and walking around. She has work tomorrow, for heaven’s sake. She’ll be fine if she simply gets up and gets through it. She’s always fine, because she has to be.

Gwendolyn, for her part, apparently reads Mildred’s mind. “You’re sick, sweetheart,” she says.

Mildred scoffs. “I most certainly am not,” she says. “I don’t get sick.” She nods, as if that settles it.

Gwendolyn’s answering look is full of such sympathy that it makes Mildred’s chest ache. It freezes Mildred in the kitchen doorway, her desire to surrender and allow herself to be cared for at war with her desire to soldier through this and burden only herself. Her body, though, makes the decision for her. She bends in half with the force of a sneeze, and the pity on Gwendolyn’s face only deepens. Mildred, of all ridiculous things, suddenly feels like she might cry.

She actually does cry when Gwendolyn abandons the soup and wraps her arms around Mildred in a tight, protective hug--loud, hiccoughing sobs that make her tremble and her nose run. Gwendolyn whispers sweet, loving nothings into her ears, which only serves to make Mildred cry harder. All she can say is, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again, like a skipping record, but she doesn’t know how to make herself stop.

Gwendolyn just keeps rubbing Mildred’s back with one hand and running the other through Mildred’s hair. “What is it, honey?” she asks, and Mildred can hear that she genuinely wants to know the answer to the question. “What’s so silly?”

After a few minutes, Mildred’s sobs have slowed enough for her to haltingly, hopelessly attempt to explain. She rubs the hem of Gwendolyn’s nightgown between her fingers as she speaks, like a comfort blanket, and maybe it is. “It’s that…no one ever,” Mildred says slowly, “that is, they didn’t--well, I mean that no one has ever really…looked after me. When I’ve been sick.” 

She blows a puff of air out the side of her mouth. “So, I’m not totally sure,” she continues, “how to…do this.” 

Anger flashes across Gwendolyn’s face, and Mildred’s stomach twists. It was a mistake telling Gwendolyn this; of _course_ no one has taken care of her when she’s sick, she doesn’t deserve it, so why should Gwen? She winces, steeling herself for the cruel words she’s sure are about to come, when Gwendolyn’s expression softens.

“Well,” Gwendolyn says, in a tone that manages to be both shaken and stern, “I’m going to take care of you now.”

She gently pushes Mildred back and leads her into the living room. “You’re going to lie down,” she instructs, “until your soup is ready.”

Mildred, for once in her life, follows this direction without argument. She thinks it will make Gwendolyn happy, and she is willing to do absolutely anything in the world in the name of making Gwendolyn happy. She resettles herself on the sofa and wraps the blankets around her like a cocoon. Her throat hurts and her eyes are burning. She listens to what she imagines to be the sizzle of garlic and onions hitting a hot pan. Her nose is completely stuffed up by now, but she pretends she can smell their savory scent. Her eyes drift shut.

And then, suddenly, the soft pressure of a cool hand on her forehead. “No fever,” Gwendolyn says. “Good.”

Mildred sits up on her elbows. “What time is it?” she asks, rubbing an absent hand across her face like a sleepy child. Gwendolyn is hopelessly and stupidly and irrevocably smitten. 

“Later,” Gwendolyn answers. “Good soup takes a while. Are you feeling well enough to have a bite to eat?” 

Mildred blushes and frowns. “It’s a cold,” she says, “not consumption.”

“Still,” Gwendolyn says, “it does sound like a rather bad one.”

She offers Mildred a spoonful of soup. “Here,” she says, “eat this; it’ll help.”

Through her congestion, Mildred is just able to make out the rich smell of chicken and something that almost tickles her nose. She grabs a tissue just in time for a sneeze. “What is this?” she asks, eyeing the pale broth, flecked with specks of green cilantro.

“Ginger chicken noodle soup,” Gwendolyn answers. “Trevor’s recipe. Guaranteed to cure what ails you.”

Mildred carefully accepts the offered spoonful, mindful not to burn her mouth. Spices dance on her tongue. “This is wonderful,” she says. Gwendolyn smiles, pleased with herself.

Mildred manages about half the bowl before she’s no longer hungry. Really, she wasn’t especially hungry in the first place, but she knew making the effort would reassure Gwendolyn, and that’s what was most important. She sets the bowl on the coffee table. She stretches and yawns kittenishly, then nuzzles into Gwendolyn’s arms. “Thank you for the soup,” she whispers, her voice a bit hoarse and thick.

Gwendolyn buries her nose in Mildred’s hair and smiles. “You’re welcome,” she says. “There’s more waiting in the refrigerator if you get hungry again.” 

She brushes a lock of hair back from Mildred’s eyes. “What next?” she asks. “Maybe a nice hot bath?”

Mildred chews her bottom lip as she considers the question. “I’ve had enough water for one day, I think,” she says shyly, and Gwendolyn laughs.

“To bed then,” Gwendolyn says decisively. 

She scoops up Mildred, who squeals and wraps her arms around Gwendolyn’s neck. Gwendolyn carries her like this, bridal style, all the way up the stairs and into the bedroom. She deposits Mildred carefully onto the bed and pulls the covers up to her shoulders. Gwendolyn changes into a nightgown and joins Mildred under the blankets. She wraps an arm around Mildred’s waist and pulls her close.

“Help me with my crossword puzzle?” Gwendolyn asks, getting her paper from the bedside table with one hand and putting on her reading glasses with the other. 

When Mildred nods, Gwendolyn scans the clues for one she hasn’t finished. “15 across,” she says, “three letters. ‘Suffix press’.”

Mildred helps Gwendolyn with a few clues when she gets stuck, and is only slightly smug when she gets all of them correct. Gwendolyn has no such qualms, and tells Mildred over and over how smart she is. Mildred blushes and suppresses the urge to pull the blankets over her head and hide. Mostly, though, Mildred enjoys the simple, sensual pleasure of being pressed against Gwendolyn, of listening to her breathe.

When Gwendolyn successfully finishes the crossword, she nearly lets out a triumphant _Ha!_ Fortunately, though, she thinks to look down and sees that Mildred has fallen asleep again. Her face is tucked into Gwendolyn’s hip. It’s too precious to interrupt, so instead she flips back to the start of the paper and reads about the proposed move of the public library until she, too, is asleep.

Gwendolyn manages to convince Mildred to take a sick day, which is good, because though Mildred doesn’t have a fever when she wakes up the next morning (Gwendolyn checks, twice, for good measure) she still looks absolutely miserable. Gwendolyn makes her take an aspirin, but other than that they don’t have much in the way of cold remedies in the house. 

As Gwendolyn washes her face and brushes her teeth she tries to decide if she should leave Mildred alone and run to the pharmacy or not. She certainly doesn’t _like_ the idea of Mildred ill and alone, but she likes the sounds of Mildred’s too many coughs and sniffles even less. She won’t be gone long, she reasons, and surely the curative items she buys will be more than enough to make up for her temporary absence.

The rain from the day before has continued into the new morning. Gwendolyn takes off her nightgown--she does not miss Mildred’s sleepy, approving little murmur when she reveals her bare torso--and changes into a pair of black cigarette pants and a cable knit sweater. She slips on a pair of galoshes and kisses Mildred’s forehead. “Get some more sleep,” she says. “I’ll be back in a bit with goodies for you.”

But when Gwendolyn returns, a bit damp but no worse for wear, she discovers that Mildred has _not_ gotten more sleep. Instead, she is standing at the stove in her nightgown, her hair pulled into a messy, haphazard ponytail. She is cooking something in a pan--it smells like eggs--and occasionally sniffling into a tissue she has stashed up her sleeve. 

Gwendolyn is positive that she has never been more exasperated or more in love with another person in her entire life. She clears her throat. Mildred peeks over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Gwendolyn asks.

“Making breakfast,” Mildred says, as if that’s the most natural thing for her to be doing in this particular moment. 

“Why on Earth,” Gwendolyn says, “are you making breakfast when you should be sleeping?”

Mildred very nearly rolls her eyes. “Because I’m fine,” she says, though this clearly isn’t so, given that she’s sniffling every three words or so.

Gwendolyn sighs. She sets her bags down on the kitchen table. She walks over to the stove, removes the spatula from Mildred’s hand, and gently pushes her out of the way. “Go categorize the things I bought,” she demands affectionately, “and let me finish this.”

Happiness swells like a balloon behind Mildred’s ribs. Because of course she does want to categorize what Gwendolyn bought, very much, but even more so than that it’s that Gwendolyn notices these little things about her and finds them endearing. Mildred never, not once, let herself dream that she’d find someone who could even _tolerate_ her neuroses, let alone find them _endearing_ , and yet. And yet. There Gwendolyn is, standing at the stove, fixing eggs. It’s nothing short of a marvel, a wonder, a miracle.

The eggs start as an omelette, but there was a very good reason Trevor cooked, and before long they’ve turned scrambled. There’s a package of bologna sitting out on the counter, and Gwendolyn nearly wrinkles her nose at it. But she’s not going to deny Mildred her comfort food, not now, so she plates herself a portion of the eggs and sets it aside. Then she tears a slice of bologna into small pieces, tosses the pieces into the pan, and mixes them into the eggs.

She glances over her shoulder and is overcome with affection at the serious, focused expression on Mildred’s face, the way her reddened nose and sniffles betray the important thoughts of her task. She watches as Mildred pauses every so often, chewing that bottom lip, moving items as needed to make sure everything fits neatly in its own spot ( _their own home_ , as Mildred would say). 

Gwendolyn sets the plates on the table, then goes up to Mildred and kisses her temple. “Don’t even _think_ about it,” she says.

Mildred whirls around. “What?” she asks indignantly.

“You want to reorganize that whole cabinet.”

Mildred scowls. “I do _not_ ,” she says, her chin set stubbornly.

“You do,” Gwendolyn says mildly, taking her seat, “and you can, but another day.”  


Mildred blushes and sits in her own chair. Gwendolyn realizes she’s forgotten forks, and when she returns to the table after getting them, Mildred is staring fixedly at her plate.

“Did you--did you put…bologna? In my eggs?” she asks. Her eyes are luminous with tears, and Gwendolyn tenses, worried she’s somehow made a grave miscalculation.

“Yes,” she says. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

Before Gwendolyn knows what is happening, Mildred has stood so quickly that her chair clatters backwards onto the hard kitchen floor. She crosses to the other side of the table in three neat strides. She throws herself into Gwendolyn’s arms and hugs her fiercely.

Gwendolyn would never, ever wish for Mildred to be sick, but she wouldn’t mind moments like this one happening more often. She wraps her arms around Mildred and rocks them back and forth for a few minutes. “Your eggs will get cold,” she finally teases gently.

Mildred sighs but reluctantly lets go. She sits back down and spears a forkful of egg and bologna. She props her chin in her hand and stares thoughtfully at Gwendolyn as she chews.

“What?” Gwendolyn asks. “Did I get something on my face?”

Mildred giggles. “No, silly,” she says. “I just love you. That’s all.”

Something akin to a sunbeam warms Gwendolyn from the inside out. “Oh, my sweetest one,” she says softly. “I love you, too.”

The rain patters against the windowpanes. The radio murmurs in the background. They will eat their breakfasts and drink their coffee, happy to nourish each other any way they can. They’ll give thanks for this, and for all the gifts they’ve been given: strangely and painfully and beautifully wrapped.

**Author's Note:**

> okay YES this fic takes place in winter of 1952 and YES The Talented Mr. Ripley was not published until 1955. SUE ME. It is a good book and a gay book and a book Gwen would absolutely check out from the library so I had to fudge dates a bit. Life goes on. Patricia Highsmith can take it up with my lawyer (I do not have a lawyer but also Patricia Highsmith is dead so we both have problems in this scenario).
> 
> How are we doing??? Hanging in??? Trying not to think about the possibility of a coup??? Staying warm and healthy??? I'll tell ya what I am VERY tired of living in unprecedented times!!!!! Would like my times to be precedented again, thanks!!!!


End file.
